Detached
by paperstorm
Summary: "I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. Y'know, saving people, hunting things. The family business." Part of my Deleted Scenes series, a tag for the Wendigo, 1x2. Pre-slash.


**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Wendigo', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Ron Milbauer.  
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**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)**

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><p>Dean's never seen Sam like this before. Sam's always been prone to get lost in his own head, he's more pensive and thoughtful and more reserved than Dean is, and in his teenage years he'd get in these moods sometimes – he'd just go really quiet and get this stormy look all over his face that said 'back off' from about fifty miles away – but he's never been like <em>this<em>. He's all over the place. Usually Sam's the more even-tempered of the two of them, or at least he used to be, and now it's like Dean doesn't even know him anymore. Half the time it's like he's a tripwire about to go off at any second, and the other half he looks like – well, like he does right now. Hopeless and devastated and so _empty_ that it makes Dean ache. Everyone else is around the fire, sticking together for warmth and the illusion of security and Sam's off by himself, in the dark by a tree, drawing absently in the dirt with a twig. Isolated. He looks sadder than Dean's ever seen him look. He doesn't know what to do, at all.

They didn't talk about Jessica's death after that first night, because Sam just shut down. He hasn't really reacted to it at all; there's been no tears, not a single mention of her name, he didn't even seem at all interested in going to her funeral. Hell, if it weren't for the nightmares, someone who hasn't known Sam for as long as Dean has probably wouldn't even be able to tell anything was wrong. But of course Dean can tell, he can see it written clear as day all over Sam's face, he can hear in every word that comes out of Sam's mouth how much his brother is hurting, but he doesn't have a faint clue what to do about it. And Dean asked him about the dreams at least four times, but Sam always just shrugged and rolled over and Dean didn't have the heart to press the issue. If Sam wasn't up for talking about it, Dean wasn't going to make him. But now he thinks maybe he should've. He knows fuck-all about psychology and dealing with grief, but he at least knows that you have to actually _deal_ with it, in whatever way. Bottling things up is more Dean's style – it's not like Sam, and honestly, that scares Dean. It scares him that he can't read Sam as well as he used to.

"You wanna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?" he asks quietly, so the others can't hear him, crouching down beside his brother even thought Sam won't look at him.

"Dean …" Sam starts reluctantly, but Dean cuts him off.

"No, you're not fine. You're like a powder keg, man, it's not like you. I'm supposed to be the belligerent one, remember?"

The corner of Sam's mouth twitches in an almost-smile, but when he answers his voice is small and miserable. "Dad's not here. I mean, that much we know for sure, right? He would'a left us a message, a sign, right?"

"Yeah, you're probably right," Dean agrees. "To tell you to truth, I don't think Dad's ever been to Lost Creek."

"Then let's get these people back to town, and let's hit the road! Go find Dad! I mean, why are we still even here?" Sam huffs, throwing the stick to the ground like a petulant child.

Sam's looking away from him again, so Dean takes the choice out of the equation. He gets up, stepping in front of Sam and dropping down to his knees, and then he pulls Dad's leather-bound journal out of his inside pocket.

"This is why. This book," he says, patting the cover with his other hand to emphasize his point. "This is Dad's single most valuable possession, everything he knows about every evil thing is in here, and he's passed it on to us. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. Y'know, saving people, hunting things. The family business."

Sam's jaw clenches. "That makes no sense!" he mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. "Why – why doesn't he just _call_ us? Tell us what he wants, tell us where he is?"

"I don't know," Dean admits. "But the way I see it, Dad's given us a job to do and I intend to do it."

"Dean, no. I gotta find Dad. I gotta find Jessica's killer. It's the only thing I can think about," Sam insists, voice breaking and eyes filling with tears, and that squeezes something powerful in Dean's chest. He hates seeing Sam look so unhappy. They may have been apart for a long time, but the frown on Sam's face still triggers that instinct Dean's always had – he's struck with the uncontrollable need to _make things better_, even though in reality he probably can't.

"Okay. Alright, Sam, we'll find them. I promise," he soothes, just barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch Sam's arm. "Listen to me. You've gotta prepare yourself. I mean, this search could take a while. And all that anger, you can't keep it burning over the long haul, it's gonna kill you. You gotta have patience, man."

Sam sniffs and shakes his head a little. "How do you do it? How does _Dad _do it?"

"Well, for one, them." Dean gestures toward where Haley and Ben are huddled together. "I mean, I figure our family's so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others. Makes things a little more bearable. And I'll tell you what else helps. Killing as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can."

"So," Dean begins, not really sure where he's going with it but tired of the silence. They've been driving for maybe twenty minutes, but the rush of adrenaline from the hunt wore off faster than it usually does and now Dean's just restless. It's dark and there are no other cars on the road, and just sitting there _not_ talking is starting to get on his nerves. He's completely used to long road-trips, and usually he doesn't mind the silence, but right now it feels like there's something stuck between them that they're both aware of but not acknowledging, and Dean hates that feeling.

"So," Sam repeats, drawing it out like a question and glancing over at Dean.

"How's it feel to be a hunter again?"

Sam blows a quick breath out through his nose, like he's stifling a laugh at some joke Dean isn't in on. "It's … alright, I guess. Was different, being just you and me."

"Good different or bad different?" Dean asks cautiously, but Sam doesn't offer much else by way of an explanation.

"Just different," he says, with a face so straight even Dean can't read the emotion on it.

"Huh. Well, you, uh, you were great back there, kiddo. Thought maybe you'd be rusty after, y'know, being away for so long." Dean smiles; watching Sam kick ass on a hunt always makes him proud. "No dice, though. You did good. We … we're good together."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, smiling softly back. "We are."

Dean nods, unsure of what else to say. He'd be lying if he said he didn't catch the accidental double meaning in his own words. And he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been thinking about it, at least a little bit. He feels like a terrible person for it, regardless of how fleeting the thoughts may've been, but he can't help it. Being around Sam all the time again, after so long … it's hideously inappropriate, considering it's been just over a week since Sam's live-in-girlfriend roasted on the god-damn ceiling, but sometimes Dean can't help it. He's sick, that's all it is. Must be. No one else would be unhinged enough to be thinking about _that _while Sam wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. So Dean does what he does best – he pushes it away.

"So, you wanna get a room, or …?" he asks, chewing on his bottom lip.

Sam shrugs. "Guess so. Not like we're actually heading anywhere."

Dean catches the hint of bitterness in Sam's tone, and he sighs. "We're gonna find him, Sam."

"You said that already," Sam answers shortly.

"Yeah, I know, but you're still all pissy about it so I guess you didn't hear me," Dean replies irritably. "We _will_, okay? This lead was a bust, but there's gonna be more. The man raised us, if anyone can find him it's us. I'm not gonna stop until we do. That's a promise."

"I …" Sam sort of deflates, sinking down into the seat a little and grudgingly nodding. "Yeah, alright. Fine."

There's a snappy retort on the tip of Dean's tongue, something about Sam pouting like a bitch, but he holds it in. Giving Sam a hard time is one of Dean's duties as an older brother, it's practically a birthright, but there's still a time and a place and this isn't it.

"And look, you … I not gonna push it, cause it's your business or whatever," Dean continues, "but just … I know I usually don't do talking, but if you _want _to, ever, I'm right here."

Sam goes rigid and rolls his eyes. "Oh for the love of – just leave it, alright? You're not – I mean, up till a week ago we hadn't spoken in years and now you're gonna pretend that you're all there for me?"

"Hey, you're the one that left, not me!" Dean protests.

"Oh, yeah, that's great, Dean," Sam says sarcastically. "My girlfriend is dead and Dad's dropped right off the damn grid and you're gonna bring _that_ up right now? You really wanna have this stupid argument again?"

"Damn straight I do, if this is how you're gonna be about it! I'm try'na be nice to you and you're jumping down my throat! _You_ ran out on us, dude, on _me_, so don't fuckin' act like I'm the one who wasn't there for you. I _tried_ to be! I called you all the time in the beginning, you never picked up!" Dean snaps, instantly angry and then instantly not again in the same moment when Sam's face falls. "I … look, I … damn it. I don't wanna fight, okay? Just … I don't know. Forget I said anything."

Sam stays tense for another minute, but then it melts out of him again and he heaves a heavy sigh, pulling over to the side of the road and putting the impala in park. He rubs at his forehead like he has a headache, and then he draws one leg up onto the bench seat so he can turn towards Dean.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I know you're worried about me, and I get it, I'm … sometimes I'm a little worried about me too. But you don't need to be. I lost it a little back there with that Roy guy, he was getting in my face and I just snapped. I _know_ I can't go around telling people about Wendigos before we even know for sure that's what it is. It won't happen again."

Dean shakes his head. "No, that's, that isn't the point. I don't care what you said to that guy, he was a douche anyway. And by the way, you're my little brother. I've been worrying about you since I was old enough to know how, it's not like I'm gonna stop now."

Sam actually manages a tiny smile at that, for just a few brief seconds before his eyes cloud over again. "So, what is the point then?"

"That …" Dean pauses and picks uncomfortably at the cuff of his jacket. "I don't know. I've just been wondering if maybe the reason you're not talkin' is cause you think I wouldn't wanna listen. And that's – well. Feels kinda like we don't know each other very well right now, but I'm still your big brother."

"I know," Sam murmurs, that little waver back in his voice and eyes going liquid as he nods. "I'm – okay, you're right, I'm not fine. But I don't wanna talk about it. I … can't."

"Oh." Dean tries to play it off like he's not a little disappointed, but honestly, he's not sure he completely pulls it off. The whole 'look out for Sammy' thing isn't so easy when Sam refuses to let him. All it really does is reiterate that he doesn't know his brother anymore. Seems like maybe those years apart put more than time and miles between them. "Well. Like I said, I'm not gonna push. It's – yeah. Whatever you want. But I'm always here, if … you know."

Dean can see Sam nodding again out of the corner of his eye, shifting in his seat so he's facing forward again like he can't handle actually looking at Dean anymore. That stings a little more than it probably should, but like everything else Dean ignores it. Hurt feelings are so useless.

"Let's just find somewhere to crash for the night," Sam says softly, fiddling with the gear shift for a moment and then pushing it back into drive.

Nothing Dean can think of to say feels like it would make anything any better, so he just shifts his gaze back out the window. The darkness is a little suffocating, like they really are alone, and not just on this particular road. Sam's right, though – the sooner they find Dad, the sooner things will start making sense again. He'll know what to do, he always does. There's a part of Dean that's sort of enjoying being the one in charge for a while, with Dad not around Dean gets to call the shots and it's nice for a change, but at the same time it's a lot on his shoulders. Dean doesn't have a clue where to start looking for whatever killed Jessica and their mom – Dad will have answers that Dean doesn't. If Dean closes his eyes and focuses on nothing but holding onto that fine thread of hope, he can almost make himself believe it.


End file.
